“The governor had arranged with the hospital at Mahabalibar. Would we could have found the boy a day sooner!”
“My lord, the seed of death is in man when the seed of life is planted. Any time during the past week your friend’s chances would have been no better. This district of ours is not the place for passionate youth from foreign lands, nor is it the country where indulgence can be committed with impunity. Our sun is cruel, our climate is deadly. He who cares not for his life here--is lost. Grieve not, my lord; fate has overtaken your young friend, but he will pass out free from pain and unconscious of the end that is inevitable. Until later, my lord.”
While the deeply salaaming physician retired, his tall companion returned with careful, noiseless step to the sick-room and seated himself facing the sufferer.
His elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms, he contemplated the white and almost lifeless features of the dying youth. The regular, finely moulded face was fair like a woman’s, the proud, bold nose, high faultless brow and beautiful, wavy, chestnut hair, arched lips and delicate chin betokened a distinguished and even noble ancestry. Two spots of crimson showed on the cheeks, almost the only signs of life, and imparted an appearance of extreme youthfulness and innocence; the lips were red and bright, the closed eyelids clear and smooth. Must the boy die?
This silent musing brought a flood of memories to the motionless watcher. His eyes grew clouded, tears gathered in them. The boy slept on insensible to the bitter grief he was causing, unconscious of everything, peaceful and still.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Brushing his eyes the man rose quickly and cautiously passed out to greet the new arrival. It was Major Murdock, the surgeon, a severe-looking, stout man in undress uniform. A few whispered words, a handshake and the two physicians followed the tall man into the sick-room.
Dr. Murdock examined the sleeper’s face carefully, thoroughly investigated chest, heart-beat, pulse and temperature. His examination over he, in a low voice, requested the others to join him in the primitive porch.
“Your Excellency, I can but confirm the diagnosis and prediction of Dr. Saklava; your friend cannot be saved. He lives but under the influence of the narcotic that the doctor gave him, the only drug we know which will hold life until the next fit of this awful fever consumes it finally. Dr. Saklava has more experience in enteric fevers than anyone in this province; he is both competent and skillful in the knowledge and treatment of all native diseases. You could not have had a better physician. Your friend will pass away with the next attack. He will regain consciousness and there can be no harm in speaking to him. But after his fever returns he will be delirious--and in his weakened state neither drug nor cold bath nor nurse can avail. Do you wish me to watch with you beside your young friend, Count Rondell?”
